I wipe some patches of mud off of my worn jeans, and take the catfish by the gills, and hold him up, getting a better look at him. Tom is disconcerted, and in some perverse way this makes me happy. "He's a good seven pounds at least."
"Put the old thing back, he'll suffocate if you don't hurry up."
"Not catfish. They can live in mud, you know." Rather than torture Tom any further, I toss the old fish back into the pond and he swims off into the depths of the pond's center, smarter and extra wary of treats dangling for free in the water. Tom shakes his head, and sets the fishing pole down on the ground behind him before coming close to me, to sit beside me on a large rock I had found as my perch.
"Did you know her?" he asks.
I frown. "Who?"
He looks out onto the pond and then back at me again. "That girl, the one who drowned." Annabelle.
He doesn't know her name. Only I ever had that horrible privilege. He looks all around him, swatting mosquitoes and flies as they dare to land on his arms and neck, waiting for an answer. My silence would only cause more questions, so I clench the edge of the rock and consider my options. I can lie and get out of it easily enough, say I never knew of her at all. But Tom knows me too well. I'm a horrible liar.
"She was eight," I begin. "She had long, brown hair tied in pigtails. She came with me when I visited Gerald across the water. We didn't use that boat you saw tied up at the dock, if that's what you think. We used a smaller dingy, a little red one that fit us all perfectly."
I swallow and wonder if Tom could figure out the rest for himself, but he is silent and patient as I speak, waiting to hear more. I don't want to give away too much, though I doubt he has the kind of imagination that can solve my dilemma. It is not a cruel thing to say and it should be clear by now that cruelty is not in my nature. Tom is open and brash and tasteless, three things that he can make a virtue rather than annoying vices. My breath leaves me in a heavy sigh when I view his expectant face, his blue eyes trusting that every word I speak has not even the hint of a lie.
"We would visit Gerald early in the mornings," I continue. "Sometimes before the sun even crept out of bed. My aunt would have been livid had she known, but the lake was quiet and she was a deep sleeper. Annabelle..." I pause, I'm astounded at how easily I have spoken her name, "would already be at the dock, waiting. We did this nearly every day, for a whole year, no one catching on that we were all together, not until breakfast arrived, and we'd somehow find our ways home. My Aunt would have been furious, you see, had she known I'd gone out on the lake by myself." My eyes flicker over the surface of the pond, over its opaque and almost solid surface. "She couldn't swim, my Aunt. In the back of her mind, she always had a fear of the lake."
Tom is quiet. A frog's voice disturbs the quiet setting, a rubber band snapping an echo across the water and into the tall reeds. "One morning, we set out to get Gerald, and Annabelle thought it would be fun to balance on the stern of the boat, like she'd seen some fishermen do on one of those National Geographic TV shows. It was November and the snow hadn't hit us yet, but the weather was cold, and we had all of the season's gear on. Thick, wool lined boots with heavy treads. Long wool coats."
I can't say it, but Tom put the words there for me, making the story true, for him at least. I'm a terrible liar, but he thankfully can't see through it.
"She fell in." "Yes." I'm enveloped in suffocating quiet. "She fell in. The wool coat, the winter shoes...She sank like a lead weight." There is nothing now. Nature is silenced into a real hush at this news, digesting it, turning it over in its mind and finding fault with the details. But Tom's arm banishes its doubt, his body is against my side, arms taking me into a real and sympathetic embrace.
"All this time and you never told me."
I shrug his touch away, the guilt so powerful it is making me nauseous. "No. It isn't something that I like digging up." He squeezes my shoulder. All full of sweet reassurance, my Tom. "We don't have to talk about it anymore if you don't want to."
I nod, thankful. Lines from an old poem by Edgar Allen Poe swirl around my consciousness, taunting me for it, talking like a cliché with a single word, 'Nevermore'. Only I had no Lenore, I had Annabelle, no black raven to betray her presence, only a large, black and empty lake.
Empty? Oh no, never really empty. That black lake that sucked in the sun and killed it, that long stretch of water that held its sway between my shore and Gerald's -- not empty in its black ink at all, no, it was immensely full of all kinds of things. Things like Annabelle, who had not only fallen in, but had walked out first.
Tom murmurs in my ear, bringing me back the realization I am in his arms. Shaking. Tears possibly falling. The moments seem so separate from my body's reaction. My soul has long fled from it in terror.
*** It is still morning when Tom makes love to me. I close my eyes and gasp at the way his hands so expertly coax my body into pleasure, at the way his fingers tease the tip of my shaft, stroking it while I try to fuck his palm. It is a doubled collapse of sweetness and pain, for he's inside of me, his presence so deep, so concentrated into my body I feel as though he's about to nudge my heart. I cry out at the blinding sense of ecstasy that overwhelms me when he brushes against that section of my prostrate, and I can't resist, a sticky wetness clings to my stomach, and it is smoothed against my skin with Tom's continuing long strokes. He comes after me, his arms tight around me, with all the purpose and strength as if he wants to crush me into his soul. I understand why people claim sex can be similar to dying. Nothing else can cause that flash of instinctual insight that reduces a person to just the sensation of their body's heart beating, and the rush of blood through their veins.
We remain together, skin against skin, the shape of his body perfect against my back, his lips kissing the center of my neck, murmuring something I can't quite hear. I feel like I'm drifting into sleep, and I wonder if this might be a good idea, since that had been robbed from me the night before. Tom buries his face in my hair and a few of the blond strands find their way across my sight, making the living room look as though it is filtered through airy cobwebs. The scent of his cologne mingles with the musk of spent sex which oddly enough is in agreement with the overall woodsy scent of my Aunt's cottage, a slightly animal and yet comforting aroma. I want to lie here, in his arms, until the evening falls and on and beyond then, to never move from this sweet makeshift lair we have made on the couch, where every placed limb is in perfect symmetry even though the angles look uncomfortable.
Tom's arm drapes around my chest, pulling me closer against him if that's even possible. I love this man. I'm drifting on that thought, happy for a while with it, my eyes threatening to close. He is already snoring, a gentle, heavy breathing that is warm against my ear. I want to fall into that place where Tom is currently dwelling, to lazily trace each other's bodies and minds in dream. My eyes flicker over the large TV across from us, to the oil painting above it of a dense forest scene in winter. The pull of that season makes me turn my head away, my fading, sleepy sight now catching the outline of the front door.
She's there. I want to bolt, react, cry out, scream. But Tom is snoring peacefully and I can't move, not at all. I'm rooted to the couch while she makes her way towards me, her long dark hair dripping with black water, her eyes opaque and milky and yet horribly filled with sight. Her coat is soaked, covered in moss, the bloated flesh of her face still somehow keeping its shape despite the partial decay. I want to scream. She reaches out to me and then over my shoulder, to touch Tom's forehead with a skeletal grey hand.
"NO!" I'm sitting upright. Tom is beside me, his arm around my waist, he's saying something, his words supposed to be soothing, I assume, but all I can feel is panic. It's not fair to him, but I shrink from his touch. How can I not, when the thing that called itself Annabelle has actually touched him?
She'd touched Gerald, too. I remember that now. I feel sick. I'm shaking and I want to purge my experience as easily as one could purge the flu. But it's a deeper
sickness, a winding, hideous cancerous thing that won't let go, no matter how far I run away, or how I return to face it. It was wrong of me to come here. I have no ammunition; the years I thought I'd built in strength have only been a mask of the truth before me now. Everything, all over so easily. She touched my Tom, she touched the man I love.
Tom's arms are around my shoulders; he's asking me if I had a nightmare. I have no real answer for him, so I numbly nod. I clutch at him, making every sensation of his skin known to me, to not be forgotten. There is a horrible sensation in my being, as if I'm already at his funeral.
*** Gerald was my best, and only, friend at the time. He wasn't an exceptionally likeable person, and no, I never did have any kind of 'boyish crush' on him or anything of that sort. If he himself felt that way towards me, it wasn't reciprocated. Thoughts of girls and sex and all of the relative suspensions of puberty were of no interest to either of us, not when there was fishing to be done, or boats to cast out into the water, or days full of the adventure of living feral and trusting in the thick woods. I think we might have thought ourselves Tom and Huck had we ever read the books, but our reading material was mostly the collection of Popular Mechanics that Gerald's father owned. One would never think of it, to see myself and my profession now. I had shunned books as a youth as if they were filled with infection.
Perhaps I was wiser as a child. I remember the summer I met Gerald well. He was a fat boy, another displaced city kid squatting on the edge of his parent's dock, his legs dangling over the water. I had a good three months jump on him and had time to be lonely. My prejudices about appearance and coolness had long since faded into a sincere need to meet someone my own age and make a friend of them regardless of what we might have in common. I suppose I was lucky in finding a lackey in Gerald, who was so pampered by the city he had no idea how to light a fire even with matches.
He had a small red boat and he got in and took it across the water himself when he saw me waving at him on my own dock. In retrospect it was quite a feat for an ignorant city child to take that kind of initiative and row a boat for the first time across a deep lake, without the worry of ability. I had exclaimed over the boat as he sailed to my dock, impressed by the fact that a boy around my age would even be trusted with such a responsibility.
"I'm not supposed to be using it," Gerald had clarified. So, the truth of the matter was out. He was as lonely as I was and in search of someone else to call a friend. He'd stolen his father's boat and rowed it inexpertly to my shore, just to seal the confirmation.
Friendships born out of mutual desperation do have that habit of becoming firm, don't they? The present beckons me into the kitchen, where Tom is fixing an early lunch. I wonder what he would say, if I confess that I had lied. He'd laugh off my truth, if I told it to him, he'd tell me I'm worrying over things that don't exist, and hell, that's a good creepy one for the campfires. Having lived it, I cannot let it be debased by such a simplistic shaking off. I hope in all my soul that Tom won't have to know about it, ever. Gerald drowned one fine summer day when we were fifteen. He was thinking about girls while I...I kept thinking about his handsome eighteen year old cousin David who visited sometimes. I probably would have told him, one day, had he lived. Gerald wouldn't have cared, if anything he would have been blissed beyond belief to no longer think he had to suffer my competition. He was a very egalitarian person, Gerald was, a hater of conflict. The feeling grew instead of lessened within him, over time, and he'd flinch if he thought I even had a hint of argument to give him and would concede to anything to prevent a skirmish, let alone a war. I had to be careful not to let poor Gerald agree to things he wasn't sure he wanted to do, like fishing in winter, which he hated. I still think it was his father's doing. His father, who kept losing his mind every time the snow arrived.
Gerald had been my best friend for those short years and I don't think I'll ever come close to finding that kinship again, not even with Tom. I yawn and decide that brooding over my past and things that cannot be healed is no way to spend the remainder of our time here together. I am thinking we will cut this visit short after all, the idea of staying any longer in the little cottage hideous to me.
"You know, I think I'm getting the hang of this place," Tom says around the edge of a sandwich. I open my eyes and give him a weary look. He shrugs and gestures around the small house. "It's not so bad, kind of cozy, really. We could fix up the place really well and use it as a little retreat every now and then."
I shake my head. "It's not much of a retreat for me." He looks at me, guilty, and then stows himself away further into the kitchen to eat his sandwich. "Yeah, I guess, considering..." he says, his words lightly finding their way around me. I want to pack up and leave right now, but Tom's willingness to please me and be stoic about this trip touches me. And who knows, maybe he actually is starting to enjoy himself here? Without the taint of that other world, it is a pretty place, where nature and humanity actually have the illusion of being in harmony.
I feel tired and continue to rest on the couch. The TV flickers on only half through my own volition and I watch it with an empty expression, taking in nothing of the large screen's contents save the impression of color. All of life feels drained and empty, the sounds Tom is making in the kitchen echoing throughout the small house, his presence far away to my perceptions. I think about closing my eyes and sleeping again, but the thought of seeing her and her horrible touch so close to Tom makes me shudder and force my eyes to remain open.
Ten minutes crawl past, then fifteen. There is a soft pattering on the roof of the house that eventually shifts and combines into a collection of large drops hitting it like stones. The branches of trees brush against the window panes, the wood scratching the glass. Tom's hand warmly finds my shoulder and he is looking out the front window, concern evident on his features.
"How bad do the storms get here?" he asks.
I rest my cheek on his knuckles, keeping the impression of his strength near me.
"As bad as anywhere else." *** It is a violent storm, a tempest born of frustration from having to behave itself for the duration of the summer. Thunder rolls across the tops of the trees and all the world seems tipped upside down, water bursting through the sky that once been a briny, rolling sea. It is late afternoon, but the house is drenched in darkness befitting the evening. There is a harsh gust of wind and the satellite television's reception is knocked out, leaving Tom and I with no other distraction but each other. In any other situation, this could have boded romance and perhaps it still will, but right now Tom is looking with worried eyes at the roof, a gaze which travels back into the kitchen, where several pots are collecting droplets of rain.
"Are you sure this little place can stand this kind of storm?" he asks.
I'm not sure at all, but I nod. Yes. Tom isn't fully convinced. He approaches the front window and stares out into the torrent of rain that is washing the forest floor. "I keep thinking that lake behind us is going to just get up and walk in," he says, and he's meant it as a joke.
Everything is so cold and clutching at my heart. Icy fingers wrap tight around my heart muscle, refusing to let it beat.
3.
Silence, in place of mourning. This is what I cultivate. The storm has finally passed and Tom is outside, watching the way the trees bend in latent dampness over the water, leaves cutting new patterns across the now glass still lake. It is still dark outside, the sun setting behind the ceiling of grey. He is standing near the dock, one shoe drenched in mud, the other half on a plank, as if he is about to walk to that ancient, leaky boat, untie it and take a small journey outwards. I half expect him to do so and leave me behind.
She's standing near him. He can't see her, but I can, her dark wool coat dripping, a chill emanating from her that has nothing to do with the cooler air released from the storm. She is a shaft of grey herself, almost blended in bruised tones with the clouds and shadows around her. I keep my distance and approach Tom with caution. I don't think she will t
ry to murder him here, now, with the wind still battling water that sprays in droplets from the trees.
Her milky eyes are on me. Hating me. Even after all this time, she still harbors her resentments, is still waiting on the bottom of a black lake to walk out and consume me.
"Tom." "This is such a beautiful place," Tom says. "It must be rich in history. I wonder if the natives used this route to trade on?"
"I don't know," I admit. "There was a family who lived further on in, back in the Victorian era. They owned a small logging company on the further shoreline." She stares at me, unblinking. I feel as though I am trapped inside of my own words, the truth daring to spill out. If I told Tom the entirety of it...If I told him that the girl who drowned was a specter who had walked out of the lake, who was a selfish, eternal child who at first was my friend, only to turn into something grotesque... Would he understand, or would he laugh and call me crazy?
I remember how she walked out of that lake the first night I had arrived, her hair dripping wet, but her face calm, ruddy, almost healthy. The years that have passed since the fateful day she touched Gerald, they have stamped her own crimes upon her soul, making a visual testament of them in her decay. There is some justice to this, I think.
I'm feeling braver. "There was a girl from that family who drowned," I say to Tom. "If you go further along the highway, you can find the mansion they used to live in easily enough, though it's nothing but a crumbled wall and some pieces of foundation now. The little girl who lived there was fond of the lake and used to play on the shore every day and, as was often the case in those times, she didn't know how to swim. She found a little red boat that her older brother used and pushed it out onto the lake and paddled upwards, following the current. She got pretty far, before the rain hit and then she panicked. She was only nine or ten and somehow, no one is entirely sure, the little red boat capsized and she fell into the water and drowned."
She isn't glaring at me anymore, I see with relief. Her eyes are now trained back on the lake, memory flooding her transparent spirit with sadness.
Monsters Page 27
